Home Alone
by Kiera Kingsley
Summary: Goren's home alone for a couple of weeks, but he gets an unexpected visitor...
1. Chapter 1

A/N: It's been way too long... *grin* A Goren / Eames relationship is established here. Read and review, please! (I apologize about the demise of "A Festival of Fools"-please forgive me! The story refuses to come out of hiding right now, but it will happen, I promise...)  
  
  
  
The TV made a buzzing noise as it switched off, and the dusty screen crackled softly in the silence. Goren stared bleakly out the window into the night and watched the flashing lights of an airplane glide swiftly through the sky, shooting across the clouds like a star.  
  
Everything was dreary since Alex had left. A long kiss at the airport, spicy-sweet and burning hot--Goren never tired of the taste of her kisses-- and then he lost her briefly as the crowd swarmed around them, but caught a final glimpse as she trundled onto the plane with her heavy bag and briefcase. He'd wandered around a bit afterwards, not quite certain what to do, and then drove back to an empty apartment. Not his home. It didn't feel remotely like his home, now that she was gone.  
  
The days were heavy and uninteresting, full of boring cases and tedious filing jobs; the nights were long and sleepless. Goren would drift off into an uneasy doze, wake up in a dreamy stupor, and then bury his head in the pillows with a groan as he realized he was alone. No soft warmth beside him, no low breathing... nothing.  
  
He slid off the sofa now, shuffling dully towards the bedroom. Another night of trying to sleep, waiting in the darkness, counting off the hours and days--he could barely wait.  
  
A soft click sounded behind him, and he turned his head to see nothing. The lamp on the table beside the sofa was still burning softly, so he turned back to switch it off... and saw a pair of scissors lying on the floor.  
  
"How did those get there...?" Goren peered down at them in mild bafflement, then picked them up and tossed them idly onto the counter. He flicked the lamp off and trundled off to bed in the darkness.  
  
  
  
It was late next morning, and Goren was spitting out a couple of choice words per second because his car keys were missing. With his briefcase in hand he stormed through the living room, overturned the cushions, crumpled up the blanket, rummaged under the sofa and coffee table...  
  
In desperation, he fled to the kitchen and began scrounging around inside the drawers and cabinets. Boxes, cans, bottles were shoved aside and flung across the room, bags were spilled on the floor... Goren stumbled to his feet and ducked his head inside the fridge, then the freezer.  
  
There. In the freezer. Top shelf, beside the steaks. Goren fished out his car keys, dusted off the white frost, and stared bewilderedly at them. His car keys... in the freezer?  
  
He quickly decided he was losing it, stuffed the keys into his coat pocket, and dashed out the door, slamming it behind him. The silence lasted for about three seconds before Goren rushed back inside, snatched up his briefcase, and left for good.  
  
  
  
That night, Goren tossed his jacket onto a chair and kicked off his shoes, loosening his tie as he wandered inside. He dumped his keys on the counter and took a glass out of the cupboard, then turned on the faucet and drained the water into the glass. It took him a couple of long gulps before he saw it.  
  
His toothbrush was lying in the kitchen sink, wedged between a couple of dirty plates. Goren tugged it loose with a combination of irritation and confusion. What the hell was going on?  
  
He was careful in brushing his teeth that night, splashing his face in cold water as he rubbed his hair dry. Goren surveyed himself in the mirror and ran a hand over his forehead, his fingers at his temples, as he took a couple of deep breaths.  
  
OK. It had been two weeks since Eames had left for that business trip. He obviously wasn't dealing too well with it. He was doing stupid things like leaving his car keys in his freezer and his toothbrush in the kitchen sink, but that was because he hadn't been sleeping well and he missed her too much. Right?  
  
His reflection stared blankly back at him. Goren gave up and drifted off to bed.  
  



	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Thank you to everybody who reviewed--I love you all *melts into a big puddle of mush* For those who didn't, take pity on a poor, sick, (practically) bedridden student... please? *big eyes*  
  
  
  
Goren woke up with the alarm clock ringing in his ears and winced groggily. He slowly sat up, stretching and yawning. The blurriness in his vision cleared, and he stopped short in his dazed movements.  
  
His jacket was lying at the foot of his covers, smoothed out neatly with the arms stretched wide.  
  
This time, Goren knew without a doubt that he had tossed his jacket onto a chair last night--he had not laid it out like that. Something cold crawled up his spine, sending icy needles shooting through his nerves.  
  
He slid out of bed, pacing the floor as he stared at the jacket. Tentatively picking it up, he felt around inside the pockets--everything was still inside: his wallet, his loose change, his handkerchief... Still in his underwear, Goren entered the living room and stopped short.  
  
The coffee table had been flipped upside down.  
  
The car keys in the freezer? He could have been distracted, that was all. The toothbrush in the sink? Yeah, he hadn't been getting enough sleep...  
  
But this?  
  
Goren carefully lifted the edges of the table, peering underneath it. The magazines were still lying there, just as he had left them last night. A politician's face leered up at him as he tugged the newspaper loose, nearly ripping its pages apart.  
  
There are only so many kinds of bewilderment, and Goren was nearly through his personal supply. He had been taken aback, mildly puzzled, and mystified, and now he was apprehensive. He would have called it a break- in, except that there were no traces of anybody entering; vandalism, except that nothing was broken; robbery, except that nothing was missing.  
  
So what the hell was going on?  
  
  
  
It didn't help that the following hours at work brought no answers. Forced to interrogate a suspect in one of his latest assignments, Goren was barely distracted from his own problem. "Where were you on the night of July 18?"  
  
"At home," the lanky, bleary-eyed drug addict mumbled.  
  
"Um... can anybody verify that?"  
  
"Sure, my neighbours."  
  
"What... uh, what hour did you get in?"  
  
"Dunno. I guess about five."  
  
"Have you ever turned coffee tables upside down?"  
  
"...What?"  
  
It also didn't help that all of the pictures in Goren's apartment--the ones hanging on the walls, the ones standing on the tables and dresser, the ones stashed away in boxes--had been turned upside down by the time he got back.  
  
Goren tried asking his neighbours: no, they hadn't seen or heard anything. He checked the windows and the lock on the door, resolving to have it changed. He kept all the lights on that night and made sure his gun was close to hand.  
  
Tense, edgy, and worried, he kept looking over his shoulder and shifting in his seat on the sofa to glance in all directions. He finally drifted into an uneasy sleep, curled up in a tight ball.  
  
  
  
A/N: See if you can tell what's going on before I post the next part. Review, please *g* 


	3. Chapter 3

Dedicated to daf9, because in this broken, weary, sad world, we need more limericks *grin*  
  
  
  
Goren had expected a truly terrifying event for the next morning, and was both disappointed and relieved to wake up to a calm, undisturbed apartment. He waited for something, anything, to happen as he absently flung some clothes on and ran a brush through his dark hair; nothing. The car keys jangled in his coat pocket and his toothbrush stayed on the shelf in the bathroom.  
  
Two days of relative quiet followed. Goren slipped back into his normal routines, his boredom dulling the edge of awareness his mind had gained. He felt sick and exhausted, as if he had reached a barren, empty space inside himself.  
  
Oddly enough, the apartment was almost too quiet--the once-soothing silence all around him had become audible and... well, not sinister, but... aware. Responsive. As if it were alive, and listening, and holding its breath.  
  
Two days of absolute silence. After that, none for a long time.  
  
Goren was on the sofa reading a book that night when there was a couple of sharp knocks at the front door. He went to the door and unlatched the lock, swinging it open. The hallway was empty.  
  
Irritated, he retreated back to the living room and was about to sit down again when the rapping started again, more insistent. Goren lurched back up onto his feet, dumping the book on the floor, with a few colorful words-- only to realize that the knocking was coming from his closed bedroom door.  
  
He sidled towards it, treading noiselessly on the soft carpet. The blows were thudding hard against the wooden frame, rattling the doorknob. Goren hesitantly reached out and touched his fingertips to the solid wood--why did he suddenly feel so cold?--then grabbed the handle in a swift motion and shoved the door open.  
  
Nothing. He was staring into a darkened, empty bedroom.  
  
Goren's blood was freezing into ice as his heart raced. He recoiled a couple of paces, reeling from the shock, his head whirling. What was--  
  
The knocking started again. This time, his bathroom door just down the hallway. This time, it was light and soft, a gentle tap-tap-tap...  
  
Goren didn't even hesitate: he lunged swiftly at the door and banged it open, barging into it like a maddened bull.  
  
Nothing.  
  
He stood in the middle of his bathroom, panting, running his hands through his hair. His reflection gaped at him, wide-eyed, trembling, glaring. What was going--  
  
Three short knocks. At the front door.  
  
Goren went very, very still, listening hard. He couldn't hear any footsteps, any breathing other than his own, any noises of cloth rustling or sneakers squeaking.  
  
The knocks sounded again. Three sharp, loud bursts, hard, persistent.  
  
Carefully, oh, so slowly, Goren raised himself to his feet. He walked out to the front door, steadily, cautiously, looking straight ahead.  
  
Just as he was about to stretch out his arm for the doorknob, the door burst open as if kicked in on its hinges. Goren let out a strangled yell and jumped back.  
  
Nobody. Nothing, but a book--the one he'd been reading that evening--lying on the ground in front of him.  
  
  
  
Read and review, please! :) 


	4. Chapter 4

  
  
Goren did not sleep that night; he sat on the couch with his knees tucked underneath his chin, his arms around his ankles, staring hard at nothing. The hours ticked by like drops draining from a leaking faucet; the detective mumbled softly to himself and started at loud noises, hard at work questioning his own sanity.  
  
A pale, cloudy morning dawned and nothing had happened. Goren stumbled over to the fridge on his stiff, aching limbs and poured himself a cold glass of water, downing it in a single gulp. Another three glassfuls and he was wide awake--steady on his feet and ready to get himself together.  
  
He trundled into his bedroom and started to dress, rummaging around in the top drawer for a pair of socks and fishing out his shirt from the closet. He had just finished straightening his tie, giving his reflection a once- over, when the mirror in front of him shattered explosively.  
  
Goren nearly fell over the bed as he backed away, reeling from the shock. Bits of broken glass had been sprayed everywhere--all over the dresser, embedded in the carpet, lying on the blankets... Scattered points of light were glinting at him from all directions, sparkling and shimmering as he moved.  
  
He barely had time to absorb the cracked mirror before the light bulb in the bedside lamp broke with a sharp crack. A flash and sizzle of electricity hissed along the bright shower of broken glass, which fell on the table and the surrounding floor with a tinkling sound.  
  
Before Goren could make another move, more explosions were heard. Glass crunched under his feet as he dashed out into the hallway. The panes of glass in the picture frames on his walls were splintered, the bathroom mirrors were smashed, the windows were split into several pieces, and all of the glasses in the kitchen cupboard had been reduced to shattered fragments.  
  
Without a single pause, Goren grabbed his things in a rush and fled.  
  
  
  
"What the hell do you suppose is going on?"  
  
Deakins listened in concern as Goren sipped at a large cup of coffee. The detective's eyes were lined with exhaustion and fear, dark shadows staining his tanned skin.  
  
Goren had tried to explain. "These things--they're happening in patterns now. It's not random destruction. First all the pictures got turned upside down, then those knocking sounds, then all the glass broke."  
  
"Whoever your intruder is, they're pretty damn good," Deakins admitted.  
  
"That's just it." Goren put his head in his heads, swallowing a bitter taste in his mouth. "I thought it was a criminal, at first, but it can't be. The knocking and the glass happened while I was in the apartment, and I couldn't see anybody. It's possible they could have hidden, but then they'd need one of my keys to get out of the apartment--and I carry my keys with me everywhere. Besides, I've searched the place. Fingerprints, footprints, scraps of clothing, strands of hair, blood--nothing. There's no trace of anybody."  
  
Deakins tapped his fingers lightly on the desk as he thought. Finally, he shrugged. "It beats the hell out of me. Try getting yourself an alarm system. Rig up a couple of surveillance cameras if you're really worried, but get some sort of security installed. And keep your gun with you at all times."  
  
Goren nodded, tilted back his head to finish off his coffee in one long draught, and tossed the cup into the garbage can. "I'll talk to my super."  
  
  
  
The building superintendent, a short, stocky man with blonde hair and glasses, was not adverse to Goren's new plan. He did, however, mention that he'd heard strange noises coming from the detective's apartment that afternoon.  
  
Goren, too impatient to wait for the elevator, charged up the stairs to the fifth floor and hurried down the hallways to his apartment. He tested the front door, found it locked, and fished out his keys to open the door.  
  
He pushed open the door slowly and stepped inside even more slowly; once he made it into the front hallway, he stopped altogether.  
  
Before Eames had left, Goren had a big bookshelf in his living room stacked full of loosely arranged books and magazines. Every possible subject was there; Goren had Mexican cookbooks, travel guides to Russia and Australia, trashy romance novels, books on the mating habits of salamanders, a few of Shakespeare's plays, encyclopedias, several copies of National Geographic magazine...  
  
Now the bookshelf was completely empty.  
  
Goren turned his head and saw one of the books sitting on the coffee table. He picked it up and flipped through it; no, nothing had been torn out or scribbled on...  
  
Another book was sitting on the kitchen table, another in the sink. One in the cutlery drawer, one in the cupboard with the plates. One on the lowest shelf of the fridge, one in the freezer. One in the bathtub, one floating in the toilet, one in each drawer of his dresser.  
  
Everywhere Goren turned, another book was lying in front of him. None of them had been opened; none of the pages had been touched.  
  
He stumbled back into the living room with an armful of books, staggering under their weight, baffled beyond belief, and tripped over a manual for the TV. The books went flying and scattered all over the carpet; Goren sat, swearing, in a pile of paper and ink.  
  
The moment the last book had slid into its place on the top shelf, the phone was off its hook. Goren would not waste another moment installing an alarm system. Before the evening was done, the apartment had been taken apart and pieced back together, and a keypad with a glowing console was fixed to the wall beside the front door.  
  
Goren, too weary to do anything else, shed his clothes in silence and dropped into bed, falling asleep almost immediately.  
  



	5. Chapter 5

Thank you so much for all the amazing reviews.... *is in advanced puddle-of- mush state* BTW, Bobby isn't going crazy--not yet, anyway--and it's not Alex, as you'll soon see. Keep reading ;-)  
  
  
  
Bobby woke up in the warm darkness; it was 6:00 in the morning, and the sky was just beginning to pale at the edges. A faint glow hovered around the horizon as the darkness started to seep away, the stars slowly fading.  
  
He'd slept better than he had in weeks, and he felt ridiculously warm and cozy wrapped up in his blankets. Without opening his eyes, he yawned and stretched out languorously. His foot hit something hard and he sighed softly, he felt so sleepy... he turned his head heavily to one side and peered down groggily at the object, blinking his blurry eyes.  
  
It was a knife. A sharp kitchen knife, stuck into the mattress just two inches left of his ankle. And at the same instant that Goren stared at it, something sharp whistled by his ear and hit his pillow with a heavy thud.  
  
He rolled over and found himself face-to-face with the blade of another knife. The hilt was sticking out of the pillowcase at a crazy angle; the knife had completely sheathed itself in the pillow.  
  
Goren yanked it out with an effort, gazing numbly at it in terrified disbelief. He shuffled out of bed and paced the floor, still holding the knife in one hand as he tried to think clearly. The metal blade felt cold to the touch, and there were long, thin scratch marks on the hilt.  
  
He ran to the bedroom door and pushed it open. Peering around to the other side, he saw something that made his blood freeze-a knife buried in the door up to its handle, with the same scratch marks on the hilt.  
  
Goren wandered through his apartment. Everything seemed vague, unreal... as he were walking in a very bad nightmare. Knifes were turning up all over the place... slicing through the cushions on the sofa, sheathed in the tabletop, even stuck in the ceiling around the overhead lights. The glint of steel caught his eye everywhere he turned.  
  
He examined each of the knives he pulled out, his eyes wide and white in the distorted reflection of the blade. No blood, no strands of hair... nothing. The blade was as cool as ice, and every time he found spiky, threadlike cracks on the handle, too thin to be made by fingernails or even another knife.  
  
He hurried to the front door and checked the keypad, expecting to find some record of an intruder... but then, wouldn't the alarm have gone off in the night?  
  
No trace of a stranger entering the apartment. The console beeped away in its regular rhythm as he knelt to examine the lock on his door. No signs of forced entry... whoever did it had to have had a key, or...  
  
Or what?  
  
Goren found himself shivering uncontrollably as he dressed, and couldn't stop himself. He bit his lip, he ground his teeth, he swallowed hard, he clenched his fists...  
  
And yet, as he looked at the scattered knives on the kitchen table as he prepared to leave, the shudder running down his spine could not be explained away.  
  
  
  
Deakins listened to him in silence, the coffee on his desk forgotten as Goren talked in a low, unsteady voice. He examined the handle of the knife Goren handed to him, running his fingers over the deep gouges.  
  
When he spoke at last, his voice was even. "Does Eames know about this?"  
  
Goren started in his chair, jolted by his realization. "She's coming back tonight," he muttered to himself, and instead of elation felt a deep terror. "She..."  
  
"So no," Deakins finished, dropping the knife with a clack. "You'd better phone her and arrange to stay somewhere else. I want to put your apartment under police surveillance."  
  
Goren stared at him with an abstracted air as he went on, playing with the knife on the desk as he planned. "We'll set up cameras, we'll have officers keeping watch outside, we'll get your neighbours to move out as well. This is getting far too serious for my liking."  
  
"What do you think it is?" Goren interrupted, his voice shaking.  
  
Deakins gave him a swift glance of surprise. "Well--you've got a very determined, very smart intruder, that's obvious--"  
  
"It can't be." The detective ran his trembling hands through his hair. "It can't be. I set up a security system last night... nobody got in. Even if somebody unlocked the door, I think the alarm would have gone off. It's rigged up to get the windows, too, every possible entrance."  
  
Deakins spread his hands. "What do you think it is?"  
  
Goren stared down at the floor. "I don't know," he whispered, closing his eyes.  
  
  
  
Goren paced on the sidewalk, clutching his cell phone close, and paused to lean against the hood of a car. Around him, sirens were wailing and car doors slammed shut as officers filtered in and out of the building, chattering to each other. Goren's neighbours on his floor were streaming out of the front doors and scattering across the lawn, loaded with luggage and giving him bewildered looks.  
  
"Here--" Goren rushed to help his right-hand neighbor, Sandro Martinez, load up the car. "Let me get that for you."  
  
"No problem," and Sandro dumped the last bag in the backseat. His two young daughters, Alisa and Jenna, clambered in behind him. "We're staying at my parents for a while. Listen--what's really going on at your place?"  
  
"I wish I knew," Goren answered fervently. He smiled at Alisa and Jenna, who squealed and shrieked back at him as Sandro started up the car, and waved to the family as they left.  
  
His grin faded as he walked back up the path to the double doors. He'd been trying to reach Eames on his cell phone for an hour now, without success. She usually had her own cell on at all times, even when she was near a phone--"You'd wither away and die without your cell phone," he'd teased her one time; "Absolutely," she'd replied with a beautiful, entirely unrepentant smile--and a little twinge of anxiety was starting to gnaw away at him.  
  
Deakins came up behind him. "Everybody's got their orders now. You have a place to stay, right?"  
  
"I'll check into a hotel somewhere," Goren answered distractedly, tapping his cell into the palm of his hand. "I can't get hold of Eames..."  
  
His captain shrugged. "Just tell me where you're headed, and I'll pass on the message if I see her. When's her flight due in?"  
  
Goren was about to answer when shouts started echoing through the building. Two officers stumbled down the stairs, wheezing and choking and gasping for air. "Fire!" one of them yelled in a strangled, hoarse scream. "Fire--fire in Detective Goren's apartment!"  
  
  
  
This author craves feedback... Review, please! :-) 


	6. Chapter 6

Thanks for the critique, RivErStaR... I love the idea--I'll start using it right away! Sunset, daf9--you are very awesome people :-)  
  
  
  
In moments, a large, cluttered mob had gathered on the plaza outside the apartment building. Goren fought his way through throngs of crying children, old ladies in bathrobes, and dazed college students, emerging just as Deakins rushed inside. "Stay outside for the ambulance!" the captain yelled over his shoulder.  
  
Two minutes later, paramedics were dislodging their equipment as the siren screamed over the confused chattering of the crowd and the sound of honking horns. Goren trailed after them as they wheeled a stretcher up the steps and into the lobby. The pair of officers who had first shouted the warning were taken outside, still wheezing and choking. Behind the detective, more sirens wailed as a troop of firefighters hustled their way past him and marched up the stairs.  
  
"We need help up here, this guy's unconscious!" A loud voice floated down the stairwell, and a couple of paramedics rushed to obey.  
  
Feeling strangely disconnected from it all--the noise, the hurried rush of movement, the flashing bright lights--Goren drew back into the recesses of the lobby and tried his cell phone again. On the third attempt, his anger and anxiety boiling over, he was about to slam the phone hard against the wall when Deakin's voice impacted into his skull.  
  
"Goren! Goren, get over here, quick!"  
  
Goren nearly dropped his cell phone as he charged into the stairwell and past the medics milling about on the stairs. "What is it?" he yelled back.  
  
Deakins appeared a few flights above him, peering down at him over the railing. "Found this guy in your apartment--he just revived--"  
  
Goren flew the rest of the way up, ignoring the slow burn in his legs and the furious blows of his heart in his chest. The paramedics were clustered around the stretcher on the fifth floor, administering needles and applying bandages as Deakins hovered at the edge of the crowd. "Can he talk?" the detective demanded, trying to catch a glimpse around the turned backs of the medics.  
  
"Yes," affirmed Deakins; to the paramedics, "Can Detective Goren address a few words to him?"  
  
"Just a few," one answered abstractedly, nodding to the others. They hoisted the stretcher up on its wheels and began the painstaking descent down the stairs in a clatter and clang of metal, Goren and Deakins rushing to keep up.  
  
Goren shoved his way in among the medics to grasp a handle on the stretcher, staring down at the face of the prone man in shock. "That's my superintendant," he muttered softly, remembering at the same moment that the superintendant owned a key to every apartment. Aloud, he said roughly, "What were you doing in my apartment?"  
  
The superintendant, Michael Russell, groaned feebly. "Bobby... I didn't do it," he mumbled, his eyes fluttering. "It wasn't me. I... I went in... just now, and suddenly a fire started on your couch..."  
  
"How?" Goren shouted over the growing noise of confusion and panic. The paramedics had gained the second floor, and people were grouped by the doorway to the lobby, waiting for them.  
  
"I don't know... I saw a match lying there, I guess it just blew up somehow..."  
  
"A match?" Michael's head tossed limply to one side, his breathing laboured. "Michael, talk to me!"  
  
"A match..." The superintendant's voice sounded thick and groggy. A paramedic leaned over him with an oxygen mask; his next words were muffled. "A single match... the box was lying open on the counter... I could see some others scattered all over the place..."  
  
"How did it light?" But the paramedics had sped up their pace, and they were rushing ahead to the ambulance waiting outside. Goren fell back, reeling slightly, as Deakins caught up to him. "The two guys--the guys who raised the alarm," the captain muttered. "Come on."  
  
They hurried outside to the ambulance, where medics were working on the officers. Jaime Kendrick, a tall, slender woman with clear blue eyes, was sitting quietly on the stretcher as a medic gave her a cup of water; Fred Pelley, though lying prone, had his bright green eyes open and blinked at Goren and Deakins as they approached.  
  
"Officer Kendrick, Officer Pelley," Goren said politely; Deakins acknowledged them with a couple of nods. "How are you doing?"  
  
"Good, Detective, thanks," said Kendrick softly, her voice still scratchy and worn from the smoke. Fred inclined his head, a small smile quirking his lips. "You want to ask us some questions, right?"  
  
"Right." Goren sat down on the stretcher next to her. "How did the fire start?"  
  
Kendrick gulped down the last of her water. "We had just got into the apartment, and the superintendant, Mr. Russell, came in after us. He was wandering around, asking us questions like how long we planned on staying, and he was bending over the couch to look at something when--when there was this small explosion, and the couch started burning."  
  
"A match," Goren interrupted. "A match lit on fire."  
  
The officer looked startled. "It had to be that... We ran over to Mr. Russell, he staggered backwards and stumbled into the front hallway, then he fainted. The fumes were starting to fill the place, he must have inhaled too much smoke. I was about to call for help and get out there when I saw Fred at the counter."  
  
Pelley coughed violently, wheezing and rasping, and resumed the story in a low, hoarse voice. "I was there. I was standing over the counter. I saw the matches lying everywhere, in all sorts of places, and I was about to pick the one on the counter up when it exploded in my face."  
  
"How?" Goren pressed.  
  
"Don't know. No wiring, no electricity sparks... I just ran for it," Pelley choked out. Kendrick put a gentle hand on his shoulder, stilling him.  
  
"We ran out of there," Kendrick continued, "the fumes were clogging everything. People were starting to get out of their apartments, and the hallway was crowded. We heard a bunch of the same explosions as we left-- more matches blowing up, I guess."  
  
A medic approached them then. "Officer Kendrick, we're heading for the hospital now, we'll need you to climb in." He indicated the ambulance, its back doors swinging wide open.  
  
"Thanks for your help, Officer." Goren squeezed her shoulder as he jumped down off the stretcher, and gave Pelley an encouraging smile. Kendrick grinned back at him as she climbed into the ambulance, waiting for the medics to haul the stretcher bearing her partner inside.  
  
Goren moved away, distancing himself from the thinning crowd as the ambulance and fire trucks loaded up their equipment. "You stay here," Deakins ordered, "I'll go check with the firefighters--" and he disappeared, vanishing among the group of police officers and medics.  
  
The detective leaned against a nearby tree, staring at his hands. His thoughts were a jumbled mess, strong currents of emotion whirling among them like a breeze dancing with loose fall leaves. The eyewitness accounts he'd just heard ruled out the possibility of an intruder. The matches hadn't been wired to explode and nobody in the apartment had done it, whether by accident or not. His possibilities were wearing thin, and the long, black shadow stretching out at the back of his mind was growing larger.  
  
Alex. He couldn't reach her, and she kept her cell phone on all the time... Where was she? She couldn't be on the plane, not yet... Goren rubbed his hands roughly together, trying brusquely to dispel the growing fear in his heart.  
  
Only one thought stood out clearly in his mind: he needed to talk to somebody, and fast.  
  
  
  
Yes, Jaime Kendrick is supposed to be Sylphide ;-) Read and review, please! 


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: Soph--you're closer than you think to the truth... ;-)  
  
  
  
Paul handed the detective in front of the counter a tall cup of coffee, staring at him in alarm. Bobby's lean face was rough and furrowed; there were hard lines around his mouth and wrinkles at the corners of his eyes that Paul hadn't seen there before. He accepted the coffee silently and hunched over a table in the plaza, swallowing his coffee in slow, exhausted movements.  
  
Flicking off the switch on the coffee maker, Paul weaved his way around the scattered tables to Bobby's seat. "Bobby, man, you look like you've seen a ghost or something..." The detective gave a hollow, dreary laugh and did not answer, looking off into the distance instead. "What's up?"  
  
"What's up?" Bobby stared back at him, his coal-gray eyes burning like embers. He'd grown to know Paul well after Eames got shot last year; the three of them still kept up a battle of friendly banter and insults every morning. Bobby now found himself pouring out his story, his words overflowing as he released the deluge of confusion and anxiety he'd felt over the past week.  
  
When he'd finished, Bobby expected some sort of joke or sympathy-or a combination of both-and became unsettled when Paul stayed silent. "What? What is it?"  
  
"Bobby... what was your last case about?"  
  
"My last case?" Bobby cast around in the flickering shadows of his mind and fished out a couple of loose memories. "A homicide, an eighteen-year-old guy, university student. His friend confessed to killing him while he was high on heroin."  
  
Paul was briefly startled. "Pace?"  
  
"No, Yeshiva."  
  
"Oh, OK..." Paul relaxed slightly and continued. "How have you been feeling lately?"  
  
"What...? What is this?" Bobby snapped defensively, blustering at him. "What do you mean, how..."  
  
"Hey, Bobby, just answer me, please? Before this all started, how were you feeling?"  
  
"Before the... the intruder?" When Paul nodded, Bobby slumped in his seat and closed his eyes. "Bored, I guess. I missed Eames, the cases were mind- numbingly repetitive..."  
  
"In other words, not good."  
  
"Yeah... so what?" Bobby raised his eyebrows at Paul. "What does this have to do with anything?"  
  
Paul fiddled with the frayed cuff of his jacket sleeve before answering in a low, hesitant mumble. "Your apartment could be haunted."  
  
Bobby spewed out a burst of loud noise, something like a snort and a laugh and a groan all muddled together, along with a mouthful of coffee. "What? What the-- Are you high or something--"  
  
"No, no--Bobby, come on, hear me out! I'm serious!" Paul raised his hands, palms flat, fingers spread--a gesture of defensive recoil. "Just listen for a moment, OK?"  
  
"You--you're crazy--"  
  
"Bobby, shut up!" Surprisingly enough, Bobby subsided into an unsettled silence. Paul continued, defiant but determined. "Just listen to me. I've read about these things, they happen. There are documented cases. A poltergeist haunts a place or a person by feeding off their negative energy- -"  
  
"My negative energy," Bobby interjected sarcastically.  
  
"Your bad feelings, your boredom and loneliness and anger," Paul went on doggedly. "It's like possession, a bit, but it definitely goes under the class of a haunting... Poltergeists are angry spirits, ghosts with a bad attitude. They're known for breaking things and trashing places... "  
  
"You're saying this guy--the student who got murdered--is now a poltergeist, and he's haunting my apartment." There was suddenly no trace of either cynicism or fear in Bobby's voice; it was merely quiet and neutral. Pieces of the puzzle were falling into place in his mind... and yet it was so absurd, so unbelievable...  
  
Paul shrugged. "It could be. I don't know, that's what it sounds like."  
  
The cell phone in Bobby's pocket shrilled, and he dug it out. "Goren."  
  
"It's Deakins," the voice on the other end of the line crackled. "I've got a statement from the officers and Mr. Russell."  
  
"Thanks..."  
  
"Wait a moment. You haven't heard the best part yet." Deakins paused for a moment, and Goren's hearing picked a strange noise--he couldn't match it to anything he'd ever heard in his life--echoing distantly in the background. Before he could figure it out, Deakins was speaking again. "We worked with the firefighters to comb your apartment. There's no trace of an intruder, and get this--the firefighters checked the wiring and the heat sources, as thoroughly they could, and apparently your matches spontaneously combusted."  
  
"...That's impossible," Goren said softly, in the same neutral tone.  
  
Deakins blew out an explosive sigh. "Look, Goren, I admit it. I'm stumped. I have no idea what the hell is going on here. Do you?" When the detective stayed silent, "Goren?"  
  
"No. No, I don't."  
  
"You're staying at a hotel, right?" Again, those odd sounds filtering through the static. "Goren? Goren, answer me--"  
  
"Yes, I am," Goren ground out between his teeth. Paul rose in silence and retreated back to the coffee stand, refusing to look back at the detective as he went. "I'll phone you when I get there. 'Bye."  
  
  
  
The hotel he booked into was clean and spacious, its rooms light and airy. Goren, lugging his bags behind him, moved mechanically, slowly and stiffly; his legs gave out just as he reached the bed, and he collapsed on top of it. The worn-out, weary wreck of a man fell into a deep sleep.  
  
Unseen by the dozing detective, the lamp on his bedside table scraped its way across the surface, paused as it teetered on the edge, then lifted into the air and smashed against the wall with a crack.  
  
  
  
If anyone was wondering, Pace and Yeshiva are both excellent universities in New York City (Paul, my favourite original character to write, attends Pace).  
  
Happy holidays! :-D 


	8. Chapter 8

  
  
After a brief and restless night's sleep, he awoke to the sound of someone crying hysterically. Another voice chattered incessantly, rising and falling with the volume of the long, broken wails. A third voice was speaking urgently. "Goren? Goren, get up. Goren, wake up. Goren?"  
  
He opened his eyes and swore softly, shielding his eyes with one hand against the bright light. His eyes watered and throbbed as he fumbled around with the covers, his fingers numb with sleep and lingering exhaustion. "What... Deakins?"  
  
A face, fuzzy in his blurry vision, hovered above him. "He's awake..." The face drifted out of range, addressing a couple of low words to someone standing by, and then floated back over to him. "Goren, quickly, get dressed. We need to talk to you."  
  
"Why's everybody here?" Goren mumbled, slowly lifting his head. Deakins was herding stray people out of the room and issuing brisk orders he couldn't quite make out. Shapes were beginning to take form, colours clearing in his mind, and he stared about the room as he slowly stood up.  
  
The hotel room had been devastated. Destroyed. The curtains and bedsheets had been slashed to shreds, there were huge gashes in the thick carpeting, and all the windows and mirrors were shattered. Huge chunks of plaster and paint were gouged out of the walls. The bucket of ice in the bathroom had been split all over the floor; the pipes were twisted, bent, and gushing sprays of water.  
  
The small nightstand beside his bed had been flipped upside down; the lamp lay crushed underfoot, a crackle of electricity snapping along the torn wires.  
  
Goren swayed on his feet, white and soundless, then composed himself with what strength he had left. He paced carefully among the glittering array of broken glass and found his suitcase; it had been hurled halfway across the room and was wedged underneath the overturned desk.  
  
His mind was gone--completely vanished. Nothing registered: no sound, no sight... no shock, no fear. He could neither think nor feel.  
  
In this state, he barely noticed a slip, a sharp sting, and a red flower blossoming on the carpet. Before long, his swollen feet were soaked in blood, and he stared at them in a daze as he held his shoes in one hand.  
  
"Goren, are you decent?" Deakins had reappeared and was standing in the door. "Holy--your feet!"  
  
"My feet," Goren repeated numbly.  
  
"Sit down, on the bed--right now! I'm calling an ambulance!" Deakins shoved him roughly onto the bed and hurried back out, shouting at the top of his lungs for a cell phone. Goren looked silently at the lamp, the window, the nightstand... and suddenly he knew.  
  
He slid on his socks and shoes, shrugged into his jacket, and pocketed his wallet. He ran a hand through his hair and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. And while Deakins was talking with the hotel staff, calling the police squad, and waiting for the ambulance, Goren slipped out the back door and left.  
  
  
  
"Bobby?"  
  
Paul rose to his feet. He'd been sitting at a table, discussing politics and the latest Knicks game with a fellow university student, when out of nowhere Bobby had appeared. The detective was staring at him now with a gaze that was both intense and eerily vacant--as if he were concentrating very hard on seeing right through him.  
  
When Bobby spoke, there was a low note in his voice that Paul had never heard before. "Paul. You said I had a poltergeist in my apartment."  
  
"Uh...well..." Bewildered, Paul could only shake his head. "Yeah... um... that's what it sounded like..."  
  
"A poltergeist?" The other student--a small, vivacious brunette with sparkling brown eyes--burst out laughing. "A ghost? Come on, Paul, you on some kind of--"  
  
Bobby silenced them both. "How do I get rid of it?"  
  
"Get rid of it?" Paul blinked at him, baffled.  
  
"Get rid of it. Make it go away. Make it leave." Bobby drew closer, and Paul backed away slightly, casting about frantically for an answer amid his rising fear.  
  
"I don't know, I... go see a priest, I think."  
  
"A priest?"  
  
"Yeah, they perform exorcisms and stuff... yeah, they'll be able to do something." Paul felt confidence slowly drain back into him, stood up straighter. The brunette was giving them both wide-eyed stares.  
  
Bobby regarded him in silence, for a moment longer. Then the haunted, glaring look left his eyes, and Paul saw the lines of fatigue and terror etched across his face as it crumpled. He turned away from them and walked back up the street, his stride slow and unsteady.  
  
"Who was that?" the student asked in a hushed tone.  
  
  
  
Father John Devougne of the Catholic Church was a quiet man--the deliberate kind, not the shy and tremulous kind--calm, composed, and careful. He lived a quiet life with his wife and grown children, performing his religious duties, ministering to a small and closely-knit congregation of elderly people. He visited hospitals, tended his garden, played golf in his spare time. Nothing about him was strange or unpredictable.  
  
He was lighting the candles on the altar, murmuring a blessing as each new golden flame was born. They gave off a soft glow, a warm and soothing light that filled his soul with peace. This was one of his favourite chores before the service--a simple task, but well worth the small effort.  
  
Done all too soon, he bowed to the cross and descended the steps; it was then that he saw the man standing in the aisle.  
  
Father John's surprise grew as he approached the silent, unmoving stranger. The man looked rakish and haggard, his eyes wild and his clothes creased with several wrinkles. "Welcome," he said aloud in his even voice. "I don't think I've seen you here before."  
  
"You haven't." The man's voice was soft and husky. "I don't normally go here. I need your help--I have two favours to ask of you."  
  
"All you have to do is ask." Father John fiddled with his long sleeves and waited.  
  
The stranger sat down in a pew and unfolded his story, a strange and chilling tale that made the priest shiver as he heard it. He had heard of these things happening before, but never before had he been confronted like this. As the man spoke, the light in the church seemed to dim slightly.  
  
"I understand," said Father John softly when he had finished. "I know what to do. Follow me to the altar, please."  
  
The stranger rose stiffly and they made their way up the steps. The candles flickered wildly as the unknown man knelt and Father John gathered up his things, and a small breeze whistled piercingly in the rafters. It was very cold in the church all of a sudden.  
  
The ritual invocations were intoned quietly, without fanfare; the visitor was blessed, purified of his sins, given the holy rites. All the while, Father John could not stop sudden chills running up and down his spine-- involuntary, spastic fits of shuddering that deeply alarmed him. He gritted his teeth, ignored it, and quickly finished the last prayers.  
  
There was a long silence when he was done. The stranger tilted his head upwards to stare at him with eyes full of longing and fear, lit by the pale sunlight falling through the windows. "Is it done?" he murmured.  
  
"Yes," affirmed Father John, reaching out to squeeze his shoulder, "it's over. You have nothing to worry about now." And as if on cue, the iciness that had spread throughout the church dissipated, leaving a relaxing and cheerful warmth behind.  
  
The man breathed easier--so did Father John--and they both got up. The stranger reached out to clasp the old priest's hands in both of his. "Thank you, Father," he said, his voice suddenly broken and rough.  
  
"It was nothing," the priest assured him, a wide smile on his face. "You said you had two favours to ask of me?"  
  
  
  
Alexandra Eames breathed a sigh of relief as she trundled through the crowds, dragging her bags behind her. At last, fresh air and a steady ground beneath her feet. The flight home had been cramped and uncomfortable, an attack of turbulence jostling everyone into queasy sickness in the last hour. She had lost count of the number of people who threw up all over themselves or rushed to the bathroom, only to trip into the aisle and retch there.  
  
The clusters of people were thinning out, and the double doors ahead were swinging open. A short taxi ride, and then home--and, after far too long a trip, Bobby. Her smile grew wider and cracked into a grin as she hurried towards the exit.  
  
Her cell phone rung, the shrill sound muffled amid her luggage. She rummaged around for it and whisked it out. "Eames here."  
  
"Eames?" It was Deakins' voice, and his anger and anxiety were snapping sharply across the static. "Where are you?"  
  
She wrinkled her brow in confusion, stopping in her tracks. "The airport, sir, I just arrived in New York. Is anything wrong?"  
  
Deakins took a deep breath. "It's Goren. He's missing. He left the hotel today, and we can't find him--"  
  
"Bobby's missing?" Eames blurted out before she stopped to think. Then, when Deakins didn't answer, "What do you mean, the hotel?"  
  
"It's a long and really weird story. Get over to the Hotel Metropolitan on Lexington Avenue as soon as you can."  
  
  
  
One more chapter to go... almost done *g* 


	9. Chapter 9 and Epilogue

A small warning: the ending of this story is rated M for mush--and lots of it.  
  
  
  
Deakins meandered up and down the hallway, strolling absentmindedly as the crowd dispersed. The cleaning staff was bustling busily around a small team of investigators inside, folding towels, taking down the curtains, and throwing out the debris from the wreckage. A police officer bent over the bloodstains on the carpet, snipping away at the coarse red hairs, while another snapped photos.  
  
Officer Jaime Kendrick came out and cornered Deakins near the elevators. "We've dusted every possible surface," she said. "Whoever wrecked the room did so without leaving any fingerprints. All we've got is Detective Goren's prints on the doorknob, bedcovers and suitcase. The blood on the carpet--"  
  
"It's Goren's," Deakins interrupted sharply. "I can testify to that. He walked all over the broken glass and his feet were cut to shreds."  
  
Officer Kendrick shook her head. "Is he... Detective Goren, is he all right?"  
  
"I suppose he'll have to tell us when we find him, won't he?" Deakins turned away and would have stalked down the corridor if the elevator doors hadn't opened and he hadn't collided with Eames.  
  
"Deakins!" The vivacious blonde grabbed his arm. "What's going on? The people downstairs said this was a crime scene--"  
  
"It is," her supervisor replied grimly. "Someone entered Goren's hotel room yesterday night and completely trashed the place, without leaving any fingerprints and being noticed by a single person. Oh, and before that, Goren's apartment was torched, and before that it was ruined at least three times--the mirrors and glassware shattered, he found knives everywhere, his books were taken apart... all without leaving behind any trace of an intruder."  
  
It was like figuring out a puzzle with a picture that didn't make any sense. Eames tried to fit the pieces together, her mind reeling from the shock. "No traces?" she managed.  
  
"None. No fingerprints, no DNA, nothing."  
  
Bobby. Somebody must have been targeting him-- "Where's Bo-- Goren?" she demanded.  
  
Deakins gave her an indulgent look, a small smile quirking at the edges of his mouth, and then went serious again. "Like I said, he's missing. When we showed up at the apartment, he stepped on some broken glass from the windows and got his feet cut. I went to call an ambulance and he just... disappeared. Out the back door, probably. He left behind his cell phone..."  
  
"I didn't need it," said a new voice, full of quiet triumph, behind them. Deakins and Eames whirled around to see Goren step off the elevator with his hands in his pockets.  
  
"Goren--" He would later dispute who said it, Deakins or Eames, but nothing could distract him right now.  
  
"Hey, Deakins, I called an ambulance, they're on their way. Eames, can I talk to you over here for a minute?" And before either could say a word, Goren had pulled Eames down the hallway, turned a corner, and led her into an alcove out of sight.  
  
"Bobby, what--" Eames's protest was hushed underneath Goren's gentle hand.  
  
"Wait," her partner said, his rough voice suddenly soft and tender. "Wait, just let me get this out before I loose my nerve or forget to say it. Alex, when you were gone these past few weeks and then when all of this happened, I--I couldn't stop missing you, thinking about you, and--and I love you, and I just wanted to say--I've been thinking about this for a long time, ever since you moved in--I was wondering if--" A deep breath, and finally, in a low tone, "Will you marry me?"  
  
  
  
Thoroughly exasperated, Deakins was pacing impatiently up and down the hallway. He barked and growled at people streaming in and out of the hallway, glaring and grumbling to himself.  
  
A small, quivering police officer timidly approached him. "Sir... the reports you requested..."  
  
"Yeah, get out of here," Deakins muttered, snatching the file folder from the trembling policeman. He flipped through its contents and fished out the first page, holding it up to the ornate brass wall lamp to see better.  
  
The page was suddenly splattered with a few drops of water, and Deakins yelped as sprays of cold water sloshed down his neck and face. The people in the hallway groaned and rushed to cover their heads, some of the chambermaids squealing as they hurriedly scurried away. The sprinklers had suddenly gone off, showering them with an explosion of water.  
  
Deakins dodged the gushing spouts and stared up at the ceiling in bewilderment. The fire alarm wasn't going off...  
  
There were muffled curses and shouts in the hotel chambers all along the hallway, and a few disheveled heads poked out of their doors, yelling irritably. The plumber quickly scuffled out from the bathroom in Goren's hotel room. "Sorry!" he called out loudly. "Sorry... we were fixing the pipes, and it just burst..."  
  
Deakins might have thrown the drenched, dripping folder at the plumber's head if Goren and Eames hadn't reappeared. Both were soaking and shivering, their clothes damp with icy water. "I'll go get your suitcase, Goren," Eames offered through the clacking of her chattering teeth, darting into the hotel room.  
  
"Goren, listen, I don't know what to do," Deakins shouted over the noise of the sprinklers. "This guy, whoever the hell he is, he's found a way to get past everything--"  
  
"Don't worry," Goren shouted back. "He won't be around anymore."  
  
Deakins raised his eyebrows at that, and thought about commenting on that, but decided to leave it alone. Goren was a good cop and he'd been through hell this past week and, personally, Deakins was just glad this whole stinking mess was over. Something caught his eye and he peered closely at his detective. "Goren, are you..."  
  
Goren wiped his wet face with one hand, retreating slightly. "It's just water," he said defensively. "That's all it is."  
  
The captain seemed about to say something, but Eames returned with Goren's suitcase in tow and the two of them entered the elevator, disappearing from his sight as the doors slid shut.  
  
Inside the elevator cabin, the water was still sopping from their clothes and puddling on the floor, and water was still brimming in Goren's eyes. But a wide smile was on his face--a smile that Alex Eames immediately stifled with a long kiss.  
  
  
  
Epilogue:  
  
Goren awoke in the warm darkness as the telephone rang in the next room. He bent down to kiss Eames softly, letting his lips linger over hers, before carefully sliding out of bed and trundling quietly into the next room.  
  
The new apartment was still unfamiliar to him in the dark, even with all of his salvaged furniture in place. He made his way over to the phone, picked up the receiver with a soft click and cradled the phone against his ear. "Hello?"  
  
"Detective Bobby Goren?" A soft, faint voice sounded in his ear, surrounded by strange noises Goren couldn't quite place.  
  
"Yeah, that's me. Who's this?"  
  
The voice paused. "My name's Jonathan Goldberg."  
  
"Jonathan--Jonathan who? I'm sorry, I--"  
  
"No, I'm sorry, Detective. I really am. I couldn't leave for a while, but I can now... I hope you like your new apartment."  
  
"Who--"  
  
"I have to go now, Detective... I just wanted to apologize. Forgive me..." And the line went dead. Goren listened numbly to the sound of the dial tone as coldness settled around his spine like an icy fog.  
  
Jonathan Goldberg--a gifted, brilliant young man, eighteen years old, majored in music at Yeshiva University. A wacky, creative young man, who mixed his own drinks, burnt his own CDs, and loved singing baritone opera as much as playing his guitar.  
  
A young man who'd been murdered by his best friend a month ago.  
  
Goren looked at the receiver, sitting in the crook of his palm, and couldn't stop shuddering. The trembling washed over him in waves, leaving his body limp and cold--oh, so very cold--and then, as suddenly as it had come, it stopped. His shoulders relaxed and his spine went supine.  
  
He replaced the receiver quietly and stared at nothing for a long moment, looking out into the darkness. Sounds and sights drifted across his mind and then vanished. He held onto the silence a little longer, then turned towards the bedroom--Eames curled up beside him, her soft breath low and gentle, and sleep.  
  
He smiled, and somewhere very far away, he knew Jonathan Goldberg smiled as well.  
  
  
  
All done! *g* My love and gratitude to everyone who reviewed--thank you all! 


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